


Progression (Strange Trajectories Remix)

by Ryuutchi



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Future Fic, M/M, Power Dynamics, Remix Redux, Superpower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/pseuds/Ryuutchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time changes all things, no matter who you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progression (Strange Trajectories Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Progression](https://archiveofourown.org/works/246194) by [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer). 



> Great appreciation to Zeb for nudging me along and Bec for the beta.
> 
> Set between the end of the first Weiss Kreuz season and the beginning of Gluhen.

Omi steepled his fingers, staring down the French delegate with the calm look he'd practiced in the mirror until he was sure that he could master the cold, bemused expression that anyone might expect from a Takatori. It was clearly working, as it had on others, on the man in front of him. He babbled in accented Japanese, gesturing at the copy of the contract he'd been hoping Omi would sign. In a perfect world, Omi would have capitalized on the man's nervousness to hammer home the changes he wanted made, but he found himself distracted-- looking just over the man's shoulder at his bodyguards, at someone he had never expected to see again.

Nagi met Omi's eyes without a glimmer of recognition, just the sharp, familiar sizing up of a threat. Absently, Omi wondered if he should be offended by the easy way Nagi dismissed him.

"T-Takatori-san?" The delegate-- what was his name again? Omi had to search for the answer-- drew his attention back to the matter at hand. Omi smiled and then again, wider, as the man drew away, trying to pretend to a lack of fear. "About the contract..."

Omi allowed himself to be drawn into the push and pull of negotiation. He had to force his gaze to keep from straying up towards the man's bodyguard contingent, but despite the distraction, he managed to win a few decent concessions.

 

All in all a satisfactory day. In the golden afternoon light that made the garden of the French embassy glow, Omi stretched, making a face at the quiet crack his back made. It never used to do that. He could practice breaking into his own house, he mused, plotting a course that would keep him in the security camera blind spots.

“You’re getting stale, Weiss,” a quiet voice said, a few steps to his left. Omi managed not to spin in place, but it was a close thing. He turned slowly instead, as though he’d known Nagi was there all along. Nagi stepped back, but Omi knew better than to see that as any profession of harmlessness. Nagi didn’t need proximity to be dangerous.

“Were you sent out to keep me from filing the contract? It seems like a small thing to call an assassin for.” Omi’s fingers itched for a weapon he hadn’t carried for several years.

"I'm just a bodyguard. I'm not interested in killing you."

"Where are your old friends?” Omi asked, intending to feign curiousity, and realizing that it wasn’t feigned. He watched Nagi’s expression intently, trying to suss out some reasoning behind the other man’s sudden reappearace.

A quickly-hidden smirk tugged one corner of Nagi’s lips. “I don’t have many friends,” he said, and the words had a hint of self-deprecation and mockery, “they can’t be that hard to find.”

Omi snorted at the bait, turning towards the embassy gates to check for his car, as if Nagi was not worth his attention. Turning attention away from a threat still made his skin crawl even after all this time, but he wouldn’t let Nagi rattle him.

He waited a long moment in silence. When he looked again, he was alone.

The conference finished, the French delegate sent packing home with his tail between his legs, Omi put the odd experience out of his mind. He packed the painfully nostalgic feeling Nagi inspired into the mental box which held all the memories of being Weiss, setting it aside in a place where it wouldn’t distract, and turned his attention to the more mundane tasks of running a corporation with a large espionage and wetworks division.

* * *

It wasn’t until a week later, on an errand to get some fresh flowers (and stretch his legs after sitting and doing a near-mountain of paperwork), did Omi see Nagi again. Omi’s head was bent over a bucket of pale irises, inspecting the the petals when a soft sound made his head jerk up. He frowned to cover the startled expression, somehow not entirely surprised to see Nagi standing, arms tucked carefully behind his back, large eyes intent.

“Good afternoon,” Omi said after a moment. It never hurt to be polite, even to someone who used to be a rival assassin. “I thought Giroux went back to France.”

Nagi shrugged up one shoulder. “I don’t speak French very well.” There was more he wanted to say-- it was clear from the set of his lips and the tension in his shoulders. It was odd, but it reminded Omi a little of the way Ken sometimes struggled not to fidget. He hid the smile that the comparison brought up, and waited patiently for Nagi to find the words, pulling his hands from the flowers and standing straight. Finally, Nagi said, “You could afford to employ me.”

As statements of fact went, it was accurate. Omi didn’t keep more than a handful of bodyguards on retainer, relying on his own skills and staying off the grid to keep him safe. “What makes you think I need to hire you?” Omi looked Nagi in the eye, trying to judge whether he was in danger.

“I’m not threatening you,” Nagi said. Omi wondered whether living with a telepath had enhanced Nagi’s ability to read people in some way, and caught the knowing smile flit across Nagi’s face. “Takatoris are always in danger from someone.”

Omi bit his tongue at the name. He’d been going by Takatori Mamoru publically for three years, but there was a part of him that still considered being a Takatori wrong somehow. Evil. The sort of person who would employ Schwarz. He tried to force the emotion down. “I’m not--,” he started, the defensiveness thick on his tongue. But he couldn’t lie and the sentence died.

Nagi waited. Although his face showed nothing but a bland thoughtfulness, Omi got the impression that Nagi was pleased to have scored the hit. “You’re alone and out of practice,” he said after a moment long enough to have gotten uncomfortable.

Making an irritated sound, Omi swiped the irises from their bucket, snagged a rose on his way to the cash register and stalked off to pay for his flowers. Nagi didn’t follow and Omi half expected him to be gone when he turned around again. He wasn’t. "What could you do for me that Manx and Birman can’t?” Omi asked.

“You know what I’m capable of,” Nagi said simply, raising a hand. Omi’s grip tighted on the flowers, and a thorn dug into the web of his thumb. “I can,” Nagi paused searching for words, and the rose pulled away from Omi’s hand, twisting in his grip so the thorn was facing outward and no threat. “I can take care of you.”

Giving in to temptation, Omi pulled the rose from his bouquet and handed it to Nagi.

* * *

If Omi had enemies before, he didn’t have many left now. Not that he ever enjoyed sending people to their deaths, but sometimes when he left his computer on and a dossier open, the person would just... disappear. This wasn’t the first time people had taken direct action without more than an indirect hint, but Nagi was both more diligent and less subtle about it than Manx or Birman. That the women disapproved of Omi’s choice of new assistant was clear, but they didn’t say anything too loudly, did their jobs and if they looked over their shoulders more than usual, Omi figured it was better to keep them on their toes, anyway. 

Nagi trailed behind him to meetings, not openly-- who would trust a baby-faced corporate officer with an equally baby-faced bodyguard?-- but pretending to be a coffee boy, or an administrative assistant. When that wasn't an option, he simply stood in the shadows or watched from a window across the street, seemingly patient as stone. It was after those meetings, most of all, that people tended to disappear. Omi didn’t fret about it. It kept Nagi occupied and rid him of troublesome people.

He was glad for Nagi’s help. Omi got used to the shadow, to reading the repressed emotions in the air. It reminded him a little of having a team again: Aya’s irritated silences, Yohji’s flash-quick smug smiles, Ken’s easily-read twitches and mannerisms. It was comforting, if he didn’t think much about the people who died to give vent to Nagi’s passions. It wasn't as though he had any room to complain.

It took months before they were used enough to each other that their relationship could be considered more than a hesitant experiment. “Come to this meeting openly," Omi said one morning, over the steaming coffee Nagi handed him.

Nagi’s lips twitched up, his eyes brightening. “Yes," he said, pouring himself a mug too and adding so much sugar it looked like mud. “I was waiting for you to ask,” he admitted after a sip.

Omi grinned. Nagi stayed by his side after that.

* * *

It was a push and pull relationship, they realized. Omi lay on the bed, watching Nagi shrug off a light jacket as invisible hands unfastened his fly. Nagi looked at him with a wry smile. Omi felt pleased and warm that he could finally elicit more than flickering moments of emotion from Nagi. He arched his hips, letting Nagi pull the trousers down and off, without moving from his place at the foot of the bed. “Don’t look so satisfied,” Omi said, and Nagi’s smile widened a fraction.

Nagi approached the bed with a slow nonchalance, and sat on the edge of the mattress. Omi relaxed against his pillows, enjoying the light yet unmistakably deliberate sensation of Nagi’s intimate use of his abilities. An invisible force pulled the buttons of Omi’s shirt through their button-holes and revealed an expanse of strong belly, marred by old scars. Nagi’s disembodied touch was like the fluttering of breath against Omi’s skin, and it made him stretch and sigh. Still, there was a part of Omi that tensed at this tentative shared intimacy, and he closed his eyes. As though acknowledging their mutual hesitance, Nagi’s phantom touch remained light, drifting from Omi’s stomach along the curve of his hip.

Manx and Birman would be deeply irritated, Omi knew, if they suspected the extent to which he was letting this move beyond the boundaries of an employee relationship. They almost certainly could tell that Omi and Nagi were close enough now to be less guarded in their actions when they were together. Omi knew that Manx was not above checking the security feeds. Nagi’s hand pulled Omi from his musings-- Nagi’s real hand, the telekinetic ones massaging Omi’s hips, and then his thighs, with sensual sureity. Nagi caressed Omi’s cheek and said, “You’re not paying attention.”

Omi turned his head and nipped at the web of Nagi’s thumb. “Make me pay attention,” he challenged. Nagi leaned in for an insistent kiss, and Omi let his eyes close, wrapping his arms around Nagi’s waist. Omi drew his fingers across the waistband of Nagi’s pants, mimicking the invisible, unreal motions of Nagi’s telekinetic touch. Nagi made a low, swallowed sound while Omi opened the fly of his trousers. 

The cool air made Omi’s skin prickle with goose-flesh, but Nagi was flushed and his skin was hot to touch. The thick curls of dark hair above his dick tickled Omi’s fingertips as he wrapped his hand around the base. Nagi drew in a sharp breath, and Omi felt a tightness settling around his balls that made him gasp. The telekinetic touch was firm but pleasant, moving in time with Omi’s own pace as he shifted his grip. Nagi leaned forward, claiming another kiss as he pressed Omi deeper into the thick mattress. This, Omi knew, was further than they ever should go together.

Nagi snorted, shifting in position as he used unseen force to pull Omi’s hips upwards, rubbing against him. “Stop thinking,” he said, his voice trembling and rough with anticipation.

“Never,” Omi said. He flared one hand against the small of Nagi’s back, the other sliding down to squeeze the back of his thigh. He pulled Nagi closer and murmured, “Make me come with you.”

With a huffed sound that might have been laughter and might have just been startled arousal, Nagi bent his head to the task.


End file.
